


Infection

by lucifers_buttocks



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Broken Bones, Fear, Hiding, Infection, Kiss Kiss Fall in Love, M/M, eddie hates being cheated, hahaha see what i did there, waylon hates eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_buttocks/pseuds/lucifers_buttocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s right next to him. Waylon can practically feel the heat from the Groom radiating through the cold wood. If he moves, Gluskin will need only to stretch his arm to catch him. If he makes even the smallest sound, Gluskin will look to his side and he will not be saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infection

**Author's Note:**

> i forgot the entire layout of the bottom floor when waylon gets off the elevator so jUST BEAR WITH ME

“What have you…? Ha. Then we continue.” On the floor above, Waylon can hear that dreadful voice resonate with relief and excitement, as if it would have pained Mr. Gluskin more to kill a man he has impulsively proclaimed to be his bride than anything else. He feels disgusted and horrified, even moreso with the blood from his ankle beginning to dry and stick on his hands. He looks at his palms for a second before forcing himself to move forward. The pain has set in, but not enough to deter him. Adrenaline is churning in his ears.

He thinks he can hear heavy footsteps trailing upstairs.

He limps with his best efforts across the hall and into a similar room to the ones he’s seen before. Trashed, desolate, cold. And with all the debris cluttering the floors, none are large enough for him to take cover behind. After pushing the door shut behind him, Waylon sways and stills himself. Light from the windows cast a ghostly ray, muffled and consumed by darkened spots on the glass. It’s dim, but it’s not enough that he would be able to safely hide in a corner. Gluskin would see him immediately and he would be caught without a second glance.

Somewhere close by, he hears the Groom hum.

The next room he runs across is pitch black in contrast to the brightness beforehand, but he doesn’t have time to be picky. He limps toward the first piece of furniture he can touch, which happens to be a thin, fragile desk and gritty, broken chairs crowding close by it. He leans his entire weight against the stone wall and eases himself down into a slouch. The space where the two walls meet hold his back upright, however, so he cranes his neck and holds his head between his knees. He doesn’t think the table does much to cover his body, but the darkness shrouding him should help. He can hear the door across the room jerk open, and then--

“Don’t hide from me, darling.” Gluskin’s voice is taut with mild concern and agitation. “I know you’re in here. I saw you.” Subconsciously, Waylon curls in on himself even more. The muscles in his leg strains and he presses his mouth to his knee to stop a particularly sharp noise from his lips. However, the Groom continues with a desperate plea, “Do you not wish to care for many children? We will only have a few, I promise.” His footsteps sound closer and Waylon squeezes his eyes. He’s going to die here. “And I will be the supportive and loving husband that you so desire.”

He’s right next to him. Waylon can practically feel the heat from the Groom radiating through the cold wood. If he moves, Gluskin will need only to stretch his arm to catch him. If he makes even the smallest sound, Gluskin will look to his side and he will not be saved.

Despite how the silence seems to stretch, it must have only been a few seconds before the Groom continues across to the second door. “This is ridiculous, darling, come out. You know I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose.” His voice begins to fade, as does his steps, and once the Waylon is certain he’s out of earshot, he lets out a shaky breath. His head swims and, even with nothing in his vision, he knows without a doubt his world would spin. The technician lifts his head and raises the camcorder to his eyes. The infrared light twitches on and, to his dismay, he notices he has a half of a battery left.

Just as he had hoped, though, he finds the room empty. The doors on either side of the room are left wide open. Faintly, Waylon can spot the light sprawled across the cement from the previous room and, for a few seconds, he wonders how long it will last. Although he’s eager to escape and never look back, he decides only to tuck himself as close as he possibly can under the desk and lie across the floor. Scraps and various crumbs rub on his cheek and pressure uncomfortably on his back, but he figures when he awakens, he’ll get on with his journey. He’ll feel better in a few hours.

He drifts here and there. Every so often, he listens to the familiar, haunting tune of Gluskin’s song carry through one of the open doors, but it vanishes as quick as it happened. At one point, though, he is so certain that the Groom is staring right at him, and after fumbling panickedly with the camcorder and seeking out for the horrifying brute, he comes to the conclusion that his paranoia is growing worse. He shivers from the cold, but when his hand reaches up to comb through his hair, he finds his forehead clammy and sweat forming. He’s running a fever.

After a few more varied attempts at resting his troubled mind, Waylon figures nothing is helping and he decides he needs to start moving. His stomach caves and feels unjustly empty, and unfortunately, the infection that has wrought its teeth into his ankle has spread very quickly to the rest of his body. Fatigue attacks his limbs as he picks himself up and brushes off the accumulated dust. When he holds up his camcorder, the screen remains dark and the battery icon reveals its life has depleted. Waylon takes a tentative step forward and a hot burst of pain shoots up his leg and he gasps. It figures that he would go and get himself hurt like this. Especially when he’s in the lair of a horrifying patient.

He takes another step, and then another. The pain doesn’t subside, not for a second, but he steels himself and bites his tongue.

 

He feels he isn’t making any progress, even as he reaches out and grasps the door frame with a strained grip. He struggles to keep his footing quiet, to hold his breath if only to keep himself from making any sort of noise. Nonetheless, it’s all in vain. The pain from his ankle aches until it becomes absolutely unbearable and it’s impossible not to stop every few moments to lean the majority of his weight on his good leg. He manages to stumble halfway through the room before some kind of splintered wooden structure trips him. His knee drags against a sharp edge and he successfully falls over, shouting his anguish and curling around his leg. He breathes in raggedly and keens out another softer groan.

Waylon presses his palm against his knee, only to voice his distress when he feels the slick warm blood staining his hand. He turns in the direction where he hopes might be a door, any door, and crawls forward. His body shifts and he stifles his cry as his weight temporarily heaves onto his injured leg, but he doesn’t stop moving. His fingers reach out, sketching over some kind of loose material. He rubs it between his thumb and index finger, eyebrows knitting. There hadn’t been any sort of table cloth or dress in sight. He wraps his hand around whatever it might be, and when his hand touches skin, his blood turns cold. He’s touching a human leg.

 

The Groom is standing before him.

Waylon looks up, but all he can see is darkness. The air is still and he prays he’s hallucinating, but the creeping sensation up his spine confirms that this is very real and he is being watched. He inhales, trembling as he slowly begins to retreat his body, but out of nowhere there’s a startling blunt pain in his jaw and he sees white. A blaring siren erupts in his ears and faintly he can taste blood. He sputters, having knocked onto his side, coughing and weakly moaning out, holding his jaw and feeling a sensitive bruise bloom beneath his fingertips. His tongue runs over his teeth and finds a few have gone loose.

However, even from recovering from a terrifying blow, nothing matches the sinking feeling of Gluskin’s shoe resting faintly against his bare ankle. The technician cries out as if he’s been stabbed, but he can’t get his leg free. The monster is slowly putting his weight on his ankle. “No, no, no, stop, please stop, please--” His voice breaks off in a scream when Gluskin’s foot stomps on his wound. He thinks he feels something entirely snap and shift among the fractured bones, but everything reels back and he thinks he can hear himself crying before he loses all of his sense of self.

 

He stirs awake in a daze. He feels thick, precise fingers touch along his leg, caressing his skin and lightly dragging fingernails down the side. He tenses--his body’s reaction is immediate--but despite himself, he can’t bring himself to cling onto the raw fear. He feels as though he’s floating, as if nothing could drag him down. The fingernails travel across his leg again with the same soft pressure, and he shivers.

Some kind of cloth presses to his knee. Nothing is particularly special about the action, but when the rag moves, he can tell it is dirty. Grains and some kind of grimy specks clot on his flesh, though it is soon brushed away every now and then. The rag itself is permanently wrinkled and coarse, too dry for comfort. He rolls his eyes beneath his eyelids and twists his neck ever so slightly, coming to understand that his head is not against a pillow or a mattress, but rather a cold, hard surface. He tries to squint under a sudden harsh lighting, but a migraine reigns over his vision and he closes his eyes again.  

He knows he has only gone out of consciousness for a few minutes. The cloth is still rubbing over his knee. Waylon shakes his head, testing his eyes once more. Above him, he spies a bare lightbulb, glowing despite its thick layer of vile god-knows-what that is blatantly obvious. A chain that connects to the end of the bulb crawls up into the darkness, where he cannot follow with his eyes. The migraine, he remembers, is gone now. Perhaps buzzing angrily behind his temples, but otherwise gone. He stretches his fingers and feels the unmistakable sensation of dirt underneath his nails rubbing against his palms, but when he reaches out to stretch his arms, something rough tugs them back. Waylon looks to his sides. Both of his forearms have been secured to two standing, wooden frames by rope.

“You had me worried there for a second, darling, I was afraid you were gone for good.” That terrifying voice breaks his calm fantasy, and his instinct is to jolt back. His leg is momentarily against the slab of metal, but before he can really do any more damage to himself, the man to his side catches his foot and he cannot break free of the tight grip.

“No, no, you musn’t hurt yourself. It will only prolong the healing process.” Gluskin says, as if some time ago he hadn’t sent a winding blow to his face and stepped on his ankle with the force of wrath. “Do not fret, I am not angry with you.” He continues, smiling kindly, “I have forgiven you. After all, you are here now, and I would never leave you to die.” He picks up the blackened gauze and holds the technician’s right leg once more. Waylon stares down at this monster, this terrible man, and although he wants to continue to defy him, he feels out of breath and it occurs to him then that his fever might have gotten worse. He slowly stares up at the ceiling, willing away the cloudiness in his head if only for a few moments.

Gluskin strokes the skin of his ankle, his thumb petting the dirtied bruises with such comfort that Waylon has to remind himself that he cannot relax. He returns his previous gaze, staring down at the Groom. Their eyes meet and Gluskin smiles, leaning down to brush his scarred, dry lips over the wound and plant soft kisses around it. Waylon resists the urge to kick him in the face, and his patience is rewarded when the patient begins to wrap it up.

“I’m so glad we’ve had this chance to talk. You do know I love you, and I will love the children you will bear for me. No harm shall ever come to them, not under my care.” His words staple in the technician’s mind. His face pales as he remembers the body set up for display when he first entered Mr. Gluskin’s chambers. For a second, he’s certain he’s going to be sick. The Groom finishes wrapping up his ankle and his hand begins to crawl up along his leg.  “I know you feel the same.” He says when Waylon fails to respond, “Do not strain yourself. Just lie back and let me take care of things.”

Waylon doesn’t. He jerks his body slightly away from the groom and struggles against the bonds around his wrists. The wood cracks slightly by his ears and, encouraged to continue, struggles harder. Underneath the fear and adrenaline in his ears, he can hear Gluskin sigh heavily.

  
“I expected this from you, darling, though I cannot say I’m not disappointed in you.” Before Waylon can properly turn to see what it is Gluskin is talking about, a strange spray is thrusted in his face and the liquefied mist flowing from it causes him to choke and gasp. His eyes sting and though he opens his mouth to shout, the spray clogs his throat and he can only manage to splutter. He feels light-headed and he sees double before everything resolves into darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> everyone look at this awesome fanart!  
> http://nanonadines.tumblr.com/post/86637678669/inspired-by-heckahecker-s-fic-infection


End file.
